MARCH 19, 2024 – (Cont.) One of the papers I wrote for that freshman year survey course in Western Civilization was about the sincerity of Constantine’s conversion. Was he truly committing mind, heart, and soul to Jesus or . . . being a supreme opportunist was he simply riding the rising swell of Christianity within the realm in his quest for imperial domination?
According to legend, at the Milvian Bridge (just outside of Rome), where the battle was joined between Constantine and his rival Maxentius, the one and only Christian God presented a dazzling celestial sign in the form of a giant gold cross. Supposedly this jaw-dropping phenomenon was observed not only by Constantine but by his 98,000 troops.
Upon learning this, I had my doubts. Surely there was some optical/scientific explanation involving the sun, the reflective qualities of water, perhaps, or maybe 98,000 metal spearheads catching the sun rays at exactly the right angle to produce a memorable effect. I remember at the time of my studies, however, contrasting my doubts about the “giant gold cross in the sky” with my lack of questioning the death, resurrection, and transfiguration of Jesus, as that story had been drilled into me from the first days my mother dragged me to church. How could I question the one legend without treating the bigger story—as legend?
If I’d had the advantage of John Julius Norwich’s (short) history of Byzantium, I would’ve had much to chew on. For starters, without even the aid of science, Norwich dispatched the “miracle at Milvian.” According to later sources, it had been a dream. But a miracle would have far greater impact than a dream, so a miracle it became.
Miracle or no miracle at Milvian, what impresses me most about early Christianity are the continual knock-down, drag-out, bloody theological rivalries within the rapidly expanding religion. Whether Jesus was half human and half divine; or all-the-way-human-but-perfect-human; or all the way divine, with human aspects . . . these disputes, often manifested in armed conflict, strike me as the traits of a belief system (“systems”?) most accurately perceived as an ox cart with one team pulling in one direction while another team tugs and pulls the opposite way. A silent Jesus rides atop the hay in the cart, shaking his head and thinking, “They sure do need me!”
It’s easy to get sucked into a deep well of cynicism over the whole sordid early history of Christianity. And that, you tell yourself, is centuries before the Crusades, the Reformation, the Inquisition, the Great Schism of the Russian Orthodox Church, the Moscow – Constantinople Schism, the pedophilia scandal that has rocked the Roman Catholic Church, and . . . all the other anti-Christian behavior among Christians.
Disillusionment with Christianity is one understandable reaction, just as disenchantment with our current national political viciousness—much of it rooted in Christian zealotry—is a reasonable response. On the other hand . . .
The disturbing chronicle of the rise of Byzantium—at once violent and brilliant—is accompanied by an impressive array of the works of civilization: the growth of trade, expansion of urban centers, and the wondrous gems of human endeavor, artistic and architectural adornments that grew and prospered despite chronic conflict and upheaval.
The same could be said of today’s world: despite apocalyptic conditions in such places as Haiti, Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine and their future company, the vast portions of humanity go about their business, discoveries, and achievements. Civilization doesn’t follow a predestined linear projection. For every stride forward we manage to take three backward, yet then to our surprise, its half a dozen forward. Such was the case in 400 C.E., just as it is in the modern era. Who at the close of August 9, 1945, for example, could’ve foreseen Japan as the peaceful prosperous democracy that it is today?
Before we place too much stock in our predictions that “if the other team” wins in November it will be the end of America . . . remember that Byzantium survived a lot harsher onslaughts and endured for 11 centuries. Many of its wonders remain standing, inspiring awe.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
